The Judge

I'm getting to old for this sort of thing, it's my knees. I just can't get down and up from the ground like I used to. And when did the ground get so hard anyway? Maybe I need to carry around a small padded carpet to lie on so the asphalt doesn't dig into my hip bones or shoulders. I saw some really nice, double thick bathroom mats at the store the other day. Hopefully I can find one in a dark gray that won't make me look like too much of a dweeb.

I'm Carl Blast, 52 years old, and once again judging the Concurs Driven class at the NorCal Mustang Car Show and Mini-Meet. The car I was currently half-under is a '65 Convertible, Springtime Yellow, built by a father and son team. This is their first show and they've done really well for a first outing. I'm inclined to give them the Bronze, the car is really well put together.

Of course there will be points deducted for several little things first timers always get wrong. The spring shackles have grade 8 bolts and not the two-piece originals. There are several other places where the nuts or bolts are hardware store items and not stamped Ford. But you gotta admire the effort. The engine compartment gleams, the interior is very nice, and the top is the correct grade of vinyl. You could tell it has been a labor of love.

This wasn't a full on examination, you'd need a lift for that. These cars sit so low you can't really get under them as much as you just poke your head a bit under and try to see anything you can. For the weekend wrenchers that's enough. Besides who gives a fig if the u-joints are original or new upgrades. I'm not that kind of snobby judge; I think these classics should be driven and enjoyed.

I'll have to speak with them after the awards to encourage them to continue to work on this beauty and learn more about what should and should not be on the car. Of course, driving this classic is reward enough. If they never do another improvement and just enjoy it, I'll be happy to see that.

I think after all is said and done, they'll end up with just under 600 points. A really good first showing.

However, the bane of my existence was next. The '66 Ivy Green coupe owned and 'occasionally driven' by Jonathan Prescott III. A nose in the air, way too much money, arrogant bastard that has dominated this judging class for over ten years. And has been fucking my wife for the last two months.

He's a Senior VP at the bank where my wife Lois works. Their building is downtown, all six floors of neo-gothic glory. Lois is the manager of the flagship branch, which is located on the ground floor of their building. He is up on the top floor where he is in charge of 'major accounts', which from what I gather means he buys lunch, dinners, junkets (with or without extras), and just generally schmoozes the biggest clients so they'll keep their money in the bank.

Jonathan worked on Lois for a couple of years before she started taking long lunches with him. But now, to her credit, she wants to break it off with him and concentrate on being a faithful wife again. She's feeling really guilty about her adultery and it's bothering her a lot. So much so, that she's planning to tell Jonathan that she's willing to quit the bank and out him to senior management for harassment if he won't walk away peacefully.

I was pretty upset when I first learned of her straying with Jonathan, but her remorse has made me rethink my original anger. I've watched her evolve past the initial excitement to disappointment and finally to regret that she ever fell for his line of crap, as she puts it.

By now you may be wondering how I stood by while she told me all about her affair. But that's now how I know. I know because she writes diligently in her journal, which is stored on her laptop. To which I have full administrative access.

You see I'm an IT guy who works for a security consulting firm. I manage all the field techs that do systems installs and maintenance. Everything from a small dentist office, to a string of car dealerships, to a bank.

But back to my wife's journal, on her aforementioned laptop. I'm not just the manager of FieldOps, I'm co-owner. My cousin, Steve Blast, and I started Blast IT right out of college. We turned our nerdy strategy of college IT support to get beer and girls into a thriving business over the years. I ride herd on the tech guys; Steve handles Sales and Customer Support.

I ask you, how would it look if any part of my own network, at the office or at home, were compromised? My professional reputation would take a huge hit; I just couldn't afford that kind of embarrassment. At the very least the guys down at the office would tease me mercilessly forever more.

So my home has gotten all the same treatment our office and client's networks have received - top of the line, state of the art. Every couple of years we upgrade the office as new and better technologies prove themselves. And I've kept my home network updated on the same schedule.

Naturally as I've purchased new 'puters for home, including my wife's six-month-old laptop, they get all the bells and whistles. Anti-virus, firewall, cloud backup, you name it. Her laptop is locked down tighter than a ducks asshole. Nobody, nothing, human or bot is going to break in. I've bet my reputation on that. But that also means that there is monitoring software that prevents downloading, or saving suspect files. And some of that does what's called 'deep packet inspection'.

I'm not going to turn this story into a technical discussion, suffice to say anything hinky happens I know about it via alerts. Which 99% of the time are nothing to worry about, and the stuff I've installed takes care of it automagically.

But, (and yes here's where I finally get to the point) the cool anti-fraud AI detection software I installed a year ago to play with at home pinged me two months ago when it detected the word 'cheating' going across the wire to our cloud storage. That word was embedded in a journal entry that my wife saved. As those bits made their way out the router on the way to the cloud the AI noticed and altered me. Curious I followed the breadcrumbs, which led to the journal entry, which led me to reading about how Lois had been to lunch with Jonathan. Where he'd put his hand on her thigh as he leaned in to kiss her. All while seated in a quiet booth at a fancy restaurant half-way across town from the bank.

The journal entry read like some high-school girl's diary, not the mother of two grown women, 49 year old married lady. "I can't believe I'm actually thinking about cheating on Carl with Jonathan." - is the sentence that brought me to this current point.

I was really, really pissed off after reading that first entry that afternoon. She went on to gush how exciting and illicit the kiss had been. She wrote that they'd have to keep meeting at remote places so as not to be seen by any bank employees lunching near the office. I faked an out of town emergency and went to see my dad. He's been gone for 8 years now, but sitting on the bench near his gravesite always brings me calm. And I can talk to him about my troubles.

Up until then I'd led a charmed life, since his passing I hadn't needed to talk to him much. The girls had turned into fine young women, Lois and I were on the same page (I thought!), and my business was doing great. Now I could hear his voice doling out advice he'd learned the hard way. He loved to use cars to frame his chats with me. We'd bonded over cars since I was little. My own 64 1/2 Coupe had been his, he'd bought it off the lot brand new.

He also had an MG track car that he kept running with spit and a prayer. But man, that little car could carve the track. He taught me to race, bide my time and wait for an opening. We never won much, but the smell of unburnt hydrocarbons is like perfume to me.

Sitting on that bench we chatted, I told him what I'd just found out with Lois. I could feel his gaze on me, weighing what to say. He used to get that look on his face when he was listening to an engine. "Carl, back of the idle a bit, I can hear it breathing hard." Or "Carl, turn up the jets, it's not smelling right coming out the tailpipe."

He would sift all his senses to figure out what to tweak. Sometimes we'd have to take a couple extra practice laps to feel how the MG was responding before settling on a tune for that day's race.

So it was no surprise that his advice was to sit back and see what happens. Make adjustments as new clues became clear. Don't change the tune without a good reason. Stay calm and let the other guy make a mistake - stay smooth through the turn.

It was two weeks after that first kiss that they did the deed. At a fancy hotel downtown, after an appropriately expensive lunch of course. Her entry into her journal was mixed. The lunch had been fabulous, the champagne chilled to perfection. She wrote that her anticipation had her as wet as she ever gets. And then the letdown. He was a selfish lover and couldn't eat pussy to save his life. She fantasized that it was just first time jitters, things would be much better when they got together again in a week or so.

But her journal entry that next week wasn't any better. Jonathan was all hat and no cattle. Now where had she picked up that particular phrase? She was wondering what she had been thinking. He was certainly a smooth talker but wasn't any good in bed. She wrote that he was only a little bit bigger than me, but didn't know how to use it. He was just a pump and dump kinda guy.

I was in a quandary, I wanted to beat the shit out of ol' Jonathan and send Lois packing. I was spending more and more time in the garage just seething. But then a funny thing happened. I'd been wrenching while I had the garage TV on and The Godfather 3 was playing. I just happened to look up when Michael and Vincent are in the helicopter "Never hate your enemies, it affects your judgement." Wow, my dad would'a said something like that. And just like that I got calm. Yes, Lois was cheating on me. Yes, it was with that bastard Jonathan. So what was I going to do about it? Where was my line through the turn?

It was if a switch had been thrown and I could see my way through. I'm sure it didn't show on the outside, but an inner calm diffused into my brain. Jonathan was going to die horribly by my hand. I don't know if it was ten years of pent up frustration alone, or his landing Lois that did it, but I decided that he had to go.

The next two journal entries about Jonathan, spaced about 10 days apart, were steadily more negative. Lois was having serious buyer's remorse and was ready to give Jonathan the boot.

Which brings us back to today's Mini-Meet judging, his green coupe was the last car on my list to inspect. I knew I wouldn't find anything out of place. Heck some of the original parts on his car actually came from my spare parts collection. Gary of Smythe Restorations and I go way back.

I originally set up Gary's shop computers and network, and he's been a loyal customer ever since. Our guys maintain all his in-house systems so I never go thirsty when I run into him at the pub. But back to the coupe, on several occasions Gary has called to ask if I happen to have an odd-ball part for a car he's working on. And so for Jonathan's coup there are three - the power steering frame bracket, the distributor hold-down, and the driver's side bolt for the transmission cross member. Those all came from me and are on Jonathan's car. I was happy to help Gary complete that work, it gave me a little smile to know Jonathan paid top dollar for a part I gladly gave to Gary gratis as a fellow enthusiast.

Which is one of the things I really dislike about Jonathan. He farms out most of the work on his coupe to Gary. He just loves opening his wallet to ensure the coupe has the best of everything. That car has original parts from end to end. The exhaust even came from some new-old-stock - meaning those pipes came from Ford.

Oh sure, he could do some things on his car, he just didn't choose to. I hear that his garage is well appointed with tools and supplies. I guess somewhere in the dim past he must have been a regular guy. Now he was a stuck up wife stealing bastard who was going to get his comeuppance as soon as I formulated a plan.

He had been a 'right bastard' (as the Brits say) to me the whole time we'd been around each other - ten years. That was when he joined NorCal and proceeded to try and make it his own little kingdom. He'd apparently had his coupe since college; I think he bought it off one of his rich friends who grew tired of it. Anyway, he was an executive at the bank already by then, so he had plenty of disposable income to properly restore the car. I don't know why he didn't move up to some more pricey toys, but he spared no expense on that car. I think he drove some Mercedes sedan most days and the Mustang was for weekend jaunts.

He learned of Smythe's through the club and brought it back to its showroom glory. But it was his attitude in general and towards me in particular that was the problem. I guess he needed to lord it over me to emphasize how important he was at the bank. The more so because Lois was somewhere down the pecking order, being just a 'branch manager' while he was an executive.

So under the green coupe I went, poking my flashlight around looking for some flaw. And of course there was none. But while I was down there, my head half under the radiator I looked up and saw that there was a tiny droplet of gas on the pump-to-carb hardline. Which is when I had the most evil idea pop into my head as to how Jonathan was going to meet his untimely end.

That little drop of fuel wasn't enough to deduct any points from his total so I didn't make a note of it on his scorecard. The rest of the day went smoothly and when I got together with the other judges, there were no surprises. The yellow '65 did get the bronze, and Jonathan got the gold. Sigh.

After the trophies were handed out and pictures taken, people started to drift off. I made a point of going up to Jonathan to congratulate him on his win.

"Good job as usual Jonathan, how is she running? Have you been driving her much?"

I don't know how Jonathan can focus on the person in front of him with his nose so far up in the air. But he did manage to smile contemptuously in my direction. I imagined he was enjoying very much looking down on me so he could lord it over that he was banging Lois; I could see it in his eyes.

"Thank you Carl, I am very proud of her. I've been rather busy at the office, major deal coming up this week. But next weekend I plan on taking her out for a nice long drive on Saturday. Really let her stretch her legs." Yup he was trying to rub my nose in it.

He had planned on taking Lois on that drive, have a great lunch at a secluded spot and then spend the afternoon in a cozy cottage. But 'ol Jonathan didn't know what was coming; Lois was going to lunch, but it was a farewell, she wouldn't be joining him at the cottage (cozy or not).

"Oh, good; then I'm glad I caught up with you. You have a minor gas leak at the fuel pump. It looks like your hard line needs replacing. But you know you could just replace it temporarily with some rubber hose so you don't miss your Saturday outing." There I said it with just the right sincerity; now to see how he reacts.

"Damn that's a bother. That major deal I mentioned is on this week and I won't be able to do anything about this until Friday. I'd take her to Smythe's but I don't even have time for that. I think I'll take your advice; I can do the hose swap myself on Friday evening while the girls are at bridge. I don't want to take the chance of doing it sooner and smelling like gas the next day at the office. You know how hard it is to get that smell off your hands. Um, thank you Carl for bringing this to my attention." And with that he was off to talk with some toady.

Jonathan had taken the bait, hook line and sinker. His wife Deborah and my Lois played bridge one Friday a month so Jonathan would be all alone in his house, nobody around to bother him while he worked on his coupe. The stage was set, I just needed to prepare; one week should be plenty. Smiling to myself I went to talk to the Yellow convertible's owners.

How does a seemingly normal dude like me arrive at the point where he's decided to take another man's life? I certainly can't answer that generically. But in my specific case, I'd had it up to here with Jonathan Prescott III. He had taken several things that I thought were happy areas of my life and sullied them. The car club, my friends, and of course Lois; everywhere he had inserted himself into my happiness he'd ruined it for me.

I suppose another man might have quit the car club, not gone to his wife's Christmas parties, looked the other way as his wife strayed. I could have divorced Lois and went after Jonathan and the bank. I could have just broken his kneecaps. I could have done any number of things that another man would have. But I wanted my life back, my happy life. I wanted to remove the one factor that was souring my otherwise happy existence. It seemed logical to me, Jonathan had to go.

Looking back on those few days, I don't remember considering what the consequences might be. Would taking a life change me? Would my life actually become filled with happiness again? What if I got caught? Or worse, failed to really go through with it. In retrospect, my dad's admonishment was probably guiding me, "too much thinking just gets in the way."

The week went surprisingly smoothly, all my preparations were in place by Friday, I hadn't hit a single snag getting ready for Jonathan.

On Friday afternoon I called Lois and caught her before she left the house. "Hi honey, just calling to let you know I'm going to work late tonight here at the office. There's some work I want to do with the 'puters in the lab. Since you'll be at bridge, it's the perfect time to do it." She mumbled something in response and I told her I'd wait up for her.

The evening went exactly as planned, and when Lois returned from bridge I was in the living room watching a space opera. I was freshly showered and smelling my best. There was an open bottle of Lois' favorite red and two glasses on the end table. I was wearing only my fancy silk lounging robe, the one that screams 'we're getting busy tonite", and the fireplace was burning seductively.

I jumped up, turned off the TV, handed her a glass and told her to sit on the sofa with me so I could massage her shoulders. "All that card playing must certainly have caused some tension in your neck." Yeah, I'm Mr. Smooth, but Lois loves a good neck and shoulder rub, add the wine and the fireplace and she knew what was up.

I gave her about 15 minutes of real massage; I'm sure she'd had a glass or two at bridge, add the robust red I'd poured her and she was quickly turning to jelly. She kicked off her shoes and with a contented sigh leaned back against me, which was her signal that her ever-sensitive breasts needed some attention. In no time at all I had her blouse open and bra undone and my hands were roaming freely. She was making all the right sounds so I decided to get things really going.

I stood up and got her to her feet, and then I gave her my very best kiss as her blouse and bra fell to the floor. I made sure I caressed her naked back and then led her over in front of the fireplace. A bit more kissing and then I moved to kissing her collar bones, slowly from one to the other. And finally moving to her breasts, I gave each one a light going over. I then settled on her right one and really gave it all my attention, which gave my right hand a clear shot at massaging her left breast. By this time Lois had her hands in my hair pulling me in close. I kept that up until it was clear she was getting a little wobbly on her feet.